


Catch Hell

by indiachick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, M/M, Necrophilia, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Serial Killers, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 22:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5644105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiachick/pseuds/indiachick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Original Prompt] Wincest fic based off a Richard Siken verse: "Two brothers: one of them wants to take you apart. Two brothers: one of them wants to put you back together. It's time to choose sides now. The stitches or the devouring mouth?"</p><p>Written for spn_masquerade</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch Hell

_The road’s a lonely place_ , Sam tells the hitchhiker, yelling over the wind and the music and the afternoon sun drenching them all in gold. The car smells of summer and beer and the hitchhiker’s cigarettes, and Dean’s head buzzes, fills up with memories of violence and the afternoon heat. They’re driving through bleak land: red desert and blue gashes of sky, scattered superstitions in painted skulls and gaudy Catholic Jesus everywhere they look.   
  
_So many places to hide a body and only cacti to bear witness_ , says the hitchhiker, and Sam laughs, his new razor-lust laugh, and Dean could bottle up that sound, he loves it so much. The backseat feels alien, a different planet, but sometimes Sam looks at him in the rear view mirror, secretive and merry, face flushed from the sun and the promise of mischief. His eyes are on Dean long enough that the thrill of crashing into something on the serpentine highway whines in Dean’s blood. But crash they don’t, and Sam keeps driving, spins tales about them that are far too ordinary for them. He tells the hitchhiker all the extraordinary things too, but he calls it myth, with a curl to his lip, an urban cultural invention—the Winchesters, brothers who fight demons and travel America’s back-roads and takes bloody vacations in Hell.  
  
 _We tell everyone this story_ , he says. _Kinda spooky, huh?_  
  
 _Almost erotic_ , says the hitchhiker, all winks and suggestions for Sam, and fuck, Dean actually likes this one a little, could have let him go into the wide, hot desert right outside the window.  
  
But it’s been too long, both of them restless— far too long with nothing more interesting than boiling motel rooms, empty skies, and TV full of Spanish infomercials and busted colour. For two weeks now, they just drove and ate junk food and fucked, and their dreams grew claws and brimmed with red and became unbearable.   
  
_This one, please, this one_ , Sam had said, terse like a prayer, when they picked the hitchhiker up outside a Baptist church, _oh, this one I love; this one we’ll remember. Please, Dean._ Dean remembers the church better: that glittering white neatness of it, the stained-glass Mary on the window shining with refracted afternoon benevolence. It put him in the mind for dirty things, for open-mouthed kisses and Sam’s slick tongue on his cock, but to get something you need to give something, and so he had said, _yes ,Sammy, yes, yes._  
  
******************  
  
It was easy to claw out of Hell when it came to it, actually, and Dean should have known there was a catch somewhere. Alastair’s gloating glee for several months should have clued him in, but Dean had priorities: a musician he’d had to teach new music. ( _Your body is your orchestra,_ he’d preached, the man’s organs all neatly laid out in clearly demarcated strings, wind and percussion sections. _Now make your own music._ ) Now that he was topside, he was all too aware of the long pauses of time for which Alastair disappeared, the secret gleam in his eye, his sudden blind spot that aided in Dean’s escape.  
  
Now that he was topside, he had to find Sam, except there was no Sam. Not alive, anyway. This meant that he had to pursue new avenues, and look in the most unlikely places. Get past the cosmic fear of other dimensions that never went away— no matter how familiar you were with them.  
  
And when he did finally find Sam, pulled him out of a hole in the earth like a folded puppet, the light on his muddy face had turned his eyes suddenly, startlingly green, like a door opening suddenly into a bright, empty room. This Sam—clever and innocent and perverse—was so much the Sam in Dean’s Hell, so much the Sam out of every fantasy Alastair had extracted from Dean. This Sam had taken up the blade in Hell not because he was tortured into it, but because blood held a vicious, carnal allure for him.   
  
Dean wouldn’t change a thing about this Sam, not for the world.  
  
**********************  
  
The hitchhiker talks a lot about those who have lost their way on the road, all the interstate murders and bodies beneath asphalt. _It’s a mean world; it’s got a cold eye._ Sam agrees, but he’s agreeing to everything now, laying the trap, and so they listen to stories about poor lost men and women being cut in two, or carved up like statues, and Dean takes big gulps of his warm beer and gets more and more restless for it to stop, for _him_ to stop.  
  
Sam even whispers about letting this one go, when they stop for dinner—because this guy is expecting murder and where is the fun in that? But Dean says fuck that—that is the fun. And so Sam sweet talks the hitchhiker and it takes a day extra but what artfulness!   
  
Dean does this one; cuts his throat in a field of wildflowers while he’s busy screwing Sam. It’s a neat cut, because Dean has learned his way around a knife, and the man looks eminently surprised, cornflower-blue eyes widening as his orgasm hits, at the exact same moment that his carotid is severed. The jet of blood hits Sam in the face, in his mouth, but he reaches up to kiss that hole anyway, gentle like a lover, painting his lips and chin and throat with the immaculate offering.   
  
Dean gouges out the hitchhiker’s eyes and Sam calls him jealous, but he makes it sound so beautiful. Something to _be._  
  
The summer sun is very, very bright here. The hitchhiker’s body opens like some giant bloody flower under Sam’s blade. Sam makes a low sound, licking his lips, and his smile could be brighter than the sun. They let the corpse cool while they fuck in the tall grass, and afterwards they have to brush the dirt and the insects off them before they stitch him back together.   
  
The sun’s already going down.   
  
They leave the hitchhiker in a landfill, all his puzzle pieces taken out reverently and then put back in its place, Dean’s neat Hell-learned stitches adorning his torso so perfectly that no one would suspect he’d been turned inside out once.   
  
Dean drives them to an abandoned church and sits in the pews, watching the curve of Sam’s back as he kneels in front of the altar. The roof of the church is partly gone, water pooling in places, and the blood on their shoes turns the puddles muddy and red. There are swallows and pigeons in the hulking, rotting rafters, songbird chorus echoing loud enough that they could be mistaken for wild archangel voices.  
  
“Never got the point of this exercise,” Dean grouses, and somewhere a whistle blows, long and shrill, signalling the end of red dusk and the mooring of night.   
  
“We killed a man,” says Sam, hushed and passionate. “And only we know where we put him, so who will pray for his soul if not for us?”  
  
The confessionals are better: the space is limited and damp in there, and everything that comes out of Sam’s mouth seems strange and perilous. _Father, Son and Holy Ghost, here be my scarlet oblations. Here be my sins._ The Latin he speaks, he didn’t know before. Dean’s not sure if he picked it up in Hell or here on Earth doing whatever it was he did in those few months when Dean was already down there, but all those pretty words from his mouth turns him on so.  
  
 _Abyssus abyssum invocat._ One dark act calls to another. Or something like that.  
  
Dean runs his hands over the bloody plaid of Sam’s shirt, down over his thighs, spreading his legs slightly to feel that cock stiffen in response to his touch.  
  
And Sam’s watching him, sly and slanted, the hitchhiker’s blood still on his teeth. But he keeps speaking, all his sins in a Latin catalogue, like a poor innocent lamb frightened by its own transgressions. _I love you so much,_ Dean says, into the shell of Sam’s ear, the line of his jaw, his throat.   
  
They’re cramped together in that tight space, barely any room to move, and Dean undoes buttons, licks and sucks at Sam’s nipples till they’re hard and sensitive and Sam’s breath hitches in his throat in between his words. His skin—newly re-birthed on return from Hell—is perfect, and Dean laps up that smoothness, buries his teeth in it just hard enough to make Sam stutter and laugh and stumble.   
  
_Will you kiss me?_ Dean asks, impatient, and when Sam shakes his head, Dean declares war.   
  
He doesn’t stumble with belts and zippers; his fingers roam and his mouth devours. Every time he dips lower with his attentions Sam responds with barely restrained impatience, and he jerks and moans when Dean grinds the palm of his hand against Sam’s cock.   
  
From somewhere, there’s the sound of a train, all spitting rails and bucking crossties, and Sam’s hips stutter when Dean mouths at him through his underwear. He thinks back to the afternoon, to the rhythm of the hitchhiker’s hips and Sam’s incandescent smile; the snicker-snack of steel against the hitchhiker’s throat.   
  
All that blood against the wildflowers bright in the setting sun, and the back of Dean’s head had felt so hot, so heavy.   
  
Now it’s dark and Sam lists all their sins, and Dean’s fingers are deep inside of his brother, _plowing_ , the ache in his cock sending teeth-clenching shivers up his spine. Sam stops abruptly and dives forward, bloody mouth and tongue capturing Dean’s in an assaulting kiss. It tastes of salt and iron, and Dean closes his eyes and sees Hell-fire, sees the bodies he’s buried with neat obsessive stitches along their torsos.   
  
Oh, the things they’ve done together. One heart wouldn't be enough for his love.   
  
He pushes back and Sam laughs, turns it into a gasp when Dean wraps his fingers around Sam’s dick and squeezes. They go down on the floor, hard, and he jacks Sam till the head of his cock pearls, and Sam’s breath gets so choppy that he nearly sobs for release. Then Dean leans forward, his body locks into Sam’s, and he thrusts in, works himself deeper, rolls them over on the hard, damp floor. Sam’s teeth draw blood and he cries out in beautiful anguish, curled into Dean, shuddering. Sam stretches and Dean expands to fill those spaces, and when Sam inhales, sharply, on the edge of everything, Dean clings—not yet ready to fall.   
  
Everything vanishes in a black-water flood of muscle memory, slap of flesh on flesh, and Sam grunts as he comes, making a mess between them. Blood rushes into Dean’s head, and he shoves up violently, the crash of his orgasm hard and fast and relentless.  
  
Hell took their human souls and returned them as something not-human but ever each other’s, thinks Dean, his hands slipping through Sam’s hair. They’ve caught Hell, a virulent strand, but if they’re infected, he’s glad it’s both of them. And he’s got no idea if this bloody road they’re travelling has got no purpose, but they’ll take it together.   
  
Amen. Amen. Hosanna.


End file.
